


Ghost of the Past

by WinterTheWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU Where Sherlock really died, Again, Ghost!Lock, M/M, but not as much, the gay is unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1558118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterTheWriter/pseuds/WinterTheWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock really died after TRF, and finds himself a ghost. What do ghosts do? Why, they follow around their best friends/love interests, of course!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost of the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Not canon-compliant with S3, because this was written beforehand.

This is absolutely ridiculous and I refuse to accept it as fact. There is no possible way that I survived that jump, and yet here I am, gazing upon a crowd of people gathered around a fallen object.

Wait.

I walk closer, my steps silent and invisible as I make my way through the crowd. That's..../me./ That's my body! Oh, /oh!/ Of course! Blimey, I must've hit my head hard for me to have not noticed that. I'm a ghost. Obviously.

Well, I suppose it's possible if you think about it scientifically. Energy grasps onto a consciousness and reforms as stronger energy after death, just without a physical form. Logical. Strange, but logical.

"Please...please let me through. He's my friend!" Oh, John, you poor man...If only I could've found a way to trick Moriarty or /tell/ you the truth. I'm sorry, I really am. But you're a veteran. You've seen the death of your friends many times, so you should get over this rather quickly, right?   
Are those tears, John? Come now, you're stronger than this. Crying over me won't bring me back to life and you know it. This is not a fairytale. 

~

This is a rather large graveyard, isn't it? I'm following you, John. You can't see me but I am. It's a strange feeling, being a ghost. You practically float over the ground, every movement weightless and easy. It's like being in space. You know, other than being a pirate (damn Mycroft for telling you that), I wanted to be an astronaut. I suppose this is as close as I'll get. 

Why is my grave so far away? I can barely see the entrance from here! You go on without me, I've grown tired of this. I'm going to go read the graves to find the oldest. That tombstone has a weeping angel on it. Don't blink! I chuckle, the sound seeming to hit off of an invisible bubble and back at me in an echo. Curious. 

Do you remember when we used to watch Doctor Who after a case? You used to make tea and I'd pretend the show bored me, even when we both knew it didn't. Those times were some of the only times I felt truly at ease, and I thank you for that.

I've made my way almost back to the entrance now, and I'm standing half behind a large tree. I was going to keep going but I heard you. I heard those choked words, that plea for a miracle, but I am no angel. You know that.

Did you really just turn from my grave like a soldier? It is not safe for you to slip so easily into old ways. Perhaps you should visit that therapist of yours again. She's cheating on her boyfriend, by the way. Look at her eyelashes.

See, were I living, you would've rolled your eyes and smirked, far too used to my brilliance to call me on it, but you didn't need to. I could always see it: the praise in your eyes, the awed smile that would spread across your face. I lived for that look, John. I craved it, and now I shall never receive it again. 

~

The flat looks dusty. You should get Mrs. Hudson to clean it. You won't, though, will you? No, you look perfectly content to just sit in my armchair and stare at the distance. Get over it, John. It's been an entire day. I notice that your feet are bare. Isn't that the sign for "never leaving?" A bit dramatic for my tastes, but I'm a dead man, and dead men's opinions seldom matter to the living. 

~

John, it's been three weeks and you've barely /moved!/ You need to eat, go to work, date all of those ordinary women! I'm sitting across from you right now, my eyes narrowed and my lips thinned into a line. This is moronic of you. What, exactly, are you trying to accomplish? Nothing. And that's pointless, and I won't have it any longer.

"John," I say, the first word I've said since my death. The word echoes uselessly back at me and my frown deepens. "John!" I say again, more forcefully. You sit there, staring blankly, no indication that you heard me. I'll try again later.

~

It's a habit now, talking. I've been following you around for the past month, babbling off my deductions of random people just like always. Sometimes I'll reply to you when you speak to yourself, and I can almost pretend we're having a conversation. 

But I have never been a patient man. You still haven't done anything substantial since my death, and it's driven me well on the path to insanity. This is the night I'll try again.

"John," I mumble, my voice barely above a whisper. You continue reading the paper obliviously. I growl in frustration and say your name again, my hands clenching into fists when it goes unnoticed.  
Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to grow up with people listening to you and then suddenly have to live (Ha!) without it? It's /infuriating!/ The rage is flowing through my veins, and my mind vaguely links it back to the feeling of cocaine. Addicting, exhilarating. "/JOHN!/" I yell, right next to your ear. 

And then your tea falls on the floor.

Let me repeat that: your tea, which was safely on the coffee table on a saucer, has lifted in the air and then crashed onto the ground. The china is shattered, but that's not why your face is so pale, is it? No, you've always been smart. And a bit insane. 

You lick your lips nervously and look at the stain, not daring to pick it up. "Sh...Sherlock?" Ah, /finally!/ I grin now.

"Yes! Yes, it's me, John! I'm alive! Well, not really alive, obviously, but I--"

"Of course it's not him, John. You're losing it," you growl, hands balled into fists. My smile falls and I look at the controller, concentrating and then giving a triumphant "ah-hah!" when it, too, crashes to the floor. 

You've gone completely still, your eyes wide in either shock or fear. Maybe both, it's hard to tell from this angle. Looking up, you search around the room with a hopeful gaze, and I realise with a shock of fondness that it is the youngest I've ever seen you. "Sherlock, if that's you, knock over this pillow." I do so, and you gasp, a tear falling down your face.

I'm grinning broadly now, thankful that you know. Now I can make you happy again.

~

/Really?!/ You bought a Ouija Board? Oh bloody hell, John, must you be so cliche? I suppose it is a rather useful way to communicate. You've set it up on the kitchen table, my old experiments nowhere to be found. That, at least, must be a silver lining for you, not having to worry about body parts and whatnot. 

"Okay," you say, your voice a bit brighter than it's been. You sit down at the table, placing your hands on the moving piece (I'm not an expert on this, moron. I'm a detective, not a ghost-buster).   
"Say what you need to say." I lick my lips nervously (thank you for that trait) and concentrate, the piece moving slowly and deliberately. 

"One message," you mumble, your brows furrowed as you read. "Be...happy?" Well. You don't have to sound so disappointed. What the hell did you expect me to say? "Is that really it?" I move the piece again. "Yes." 

I half expect you to throw the board at the wall in a rage and then storm to your room, but you've always been able to surprise me. Instead, you lean back in your chair, and you smile.

~

Mary Morstan is nice. I like her.

~ 

John, this is only your fifth date! Keep it in your pants, soldier!   
Or don't listen to me at all, that works. Eugh. 

~

Proposing so soon? My, she really is special, isn't she? 

~ 

Well that's interesting. I appear to be...fading. I no longer have the strength to move things. My skin is transparent now. Huh.

~

That tux is too expensive. Get Mycroft to buy it for you. 

~

You didn't listen, as per usual, but you did a good job with the wedding. It's...nice.

~

I understand now, John. The reason I'm here, the reason I didn't just rot in the ground is you. Well, to be more specific, your happiness. My job was to make you happy, and to make you move on. It's worked, now.

Mary's pregnant, you're a surgeon again, and both of you are happy. I'm barely visible now, but that's okay. I'm at peace with it.

~

I'm fading more and more every second. I wager I have two minutes left, so...thank you, John. Thank you for putting up with my insanity and my experiments. Thank you for treating me like a person instead of a freak. Thank you for the compliments, the tea, the nagging...everything. But, most importantly, thank you for teaching me that it truly is friends that protect you.

I lo--

~Fin.~


End file.
